


Rose Garden

by Valeria2067



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, unestablished relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 07:12:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1460479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valeria2067/pseuds/Valeria2067
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wonders why Sherlock chooses to take refuge in a rose garden, of all places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rose Garden

Every time. It happened every bloody time.

They were at party, well at a reception anyway, and not an hour into it, Sherlock had already disappeared.

The habit was embarrassing enough in their normal social circles, but on this particular evening, the celebration was at a very posh estate, and Sherlock was the guest of honour.

John wasn’t about to make a speech on his behalf. Not after the last time.

"Do bring him back in here, will you, John? Lord Ashton’s on his third scotch. It won’t be long before he starts toasting the man of the hour." Mycroft frowned down into his own, untouched glass.

"Right." John knocked back the last of his drink. "Any idea where I should look?" The prospect of a room-to-room search didn’t particularly appeal to him. He HAD planned a quiet evening in tonight, before he’d been strong-armed into serving as Sherlock’s plus one. Again.

_No wonder people talk._

"You might try the garden. The roses, in particular, I should think."

"The rose garden? Sherlock?"

"Mmm." Mycroft took a sip before continuing. "The time of year, you see."

"No…no I don’t see wh—" but before John could finish, Mycroft had moved toward their host, deftly placing himself in front of a server and a tray of champagne flutes.

***

It took about ten minutes for John to walk to the garden in question, and another five to find the gate in the chest-high wall.

_Lanky git probably leapt over it like a stag, damn him._

When he finally found Sherlock, it was in a tucked-away corner overhung with lush, white roses. Sherlock sat on the ground and leaned back against the stone wall. Moonlight and shadows played over the contours of those high cheekbones, that long neck, that sculpted, sensuous mouth.

John had to admit that the visual was…well…striking.

He cleared his throat. “Sherlock? You all right? Please tell me you haven't dug up a body out here.”

Sherlock’s mouth turned up in a weak smile. “I’m fine, John. And no, more’s the pity.”

"Spoken like a true humanitarian. Look, Mycroft sent me to fetch you…"

"Of course he did. Of course." He let out a low, indignant huff. "I assume he told you where to look. Did he mention anything about why?"

John couldn’t tell if it was an effect of the moonlight or if Sherlock’s eyes were bright with tears.

"Not really, no. Not that I could understand, at least. I mean, it’s not my business."

"Ah. Trust Mycroft to remember him but say nothing."

"Him? Who d’you mean?"

"He was drawn to gardens. Especially loved the roses, white ones in particular. Well, he WAS colourblind. " Sherlock pulled at a nearby bloom, beheading it. He flung the pale remains at John’s feet.

"He was someone important to you, then? Someone you lost? You miss him?" Well, imagine that. Sherlock Holmes brought almost to tears by sentiment. "He, erm… must have been very special."

"Special? Not to look at, no. But he was extraordinary in his own way. Fiercely loyal. Protective. Brave. Saved my life once, actually." Here, Sherlock stopped to draw in a long breath. "And I never had enough time…. Never just made time….for him. I thought he would always be there. But then… He was gone. He was gone, and it was too late. Too late…"

Now John could see the tears welling up in earnest. He crouched down, unsure whether he should offer encouragement or comfort or merely silence. Gently, he laid his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock leaned forward, quite close, so close to John’s face that soft, dark curls brushed against John’s cheek. John heard a teardrop hit the fabric of his own trouser leg, and seconds later, he felt the dampness seep through to his thigh. He fought the urge to pull Sherlock in, gather him into a long, fierce embrace, squeeze the sorrow out of this brilliant, gorgeous, astonishing man.

"Hey…. Hey. It’s okay. It happens, yeah? Sherlock…., that’s just part of being human. Sometimes we take things for granted. Doesn’t mean we don’t care. And it doesn’t mean it will happen again the next time."

Sherlock’s voice was wet and hoarse. “There won’t be a next time. I won’t allow myself feel like that again. I swore it.”

"And you think you have any control over that, do you? Look, pretending you don’t feel won’t make you invulnerable. It’ll just make it worse, the longer you wait to admit it."

_Believe me on that one._

_Physician, heal thyself._

_Damn it all._

_But this isn’t about you, Watson. Focus on him. Help him, for Christ’s sake_.

"We should probably head back in, if you can, but maybe we can leave early? I’d be happy to talk with you some more back at the flat. Hear more about him. Make some tea. Or there’s Scotch. Sound all right?" He clapped Sherlock’s shoulder in what he expected was the universal sign of non-sexual, "masculine" supportiveness.

Sherlock nodded. They both stood up and straightened their jackets, dusting themselves off as needed.

John looked up at Sherlock. The tears were barely visible, now.

"So, do you mind if I ask his name?"

Sherlock’s smile was less pained this time. “His name was Barbarossa. Well, that was his legal name, anyway. I never called him that. Too formal. I simply called him Redbeard.”

**Author's Note:**

> annawoolf.tumblr.com submitted the prompt: “in a rose garden”


End file.
